Forum:The Search
Rumors and whispers travel across The Gulf Belt like waves; while most are simply camp-fire tales, one has remained the same for nearly a century. Matthias Dugan, cybernetic warlord, is said to have hidden some of his treasure as he burned his way across the south. The rumors say it is enough treasure to rebuild his army should one find it, the rumors have attracted hundreds of would-be treasure hunters, though none have come close yet. This hasn't stopped the latest wave of adventurers from venturing forth, whether for riches, safety, fame or their faction, they are determined to find their way and give the region a new tale. Facing the vast green expanse of the Swamps to the south, Franklin Reynolds reclined in a rocking chair on the porch of the local Grand Dragon's house, drinking tea. He glanced over at the other man and voiced his thoughts. "It's real kind of you to let me stay here for the night, son. The wasteland has done a number on my old bones, and I'd rather not get killed in my sleep." Grand Dragon Uriah Smith nodded at that and sipped some tea. "Understandable, old timer. God knows you've seen a lot." For about another minute, the two continued to drink their tea. After while though, Smith put down his cup and looked at the aged former Grand Wizard. "Sir- Mr. Reynolds, if I may speak plainly, why are you here? No offense, but you're an old man and the wasteland is no place for you. Why risk your life in your old age to go roaming?" Franklin Reynolds took one last sip from his tea and put down his cup as well. "You might have only heard of me from my rather disastrous time as Grand Wizard, but I am now a man of history. Before the Great War, I would have been called a historian." Smith chuckled a little and shook his head at that. "You didn't answer my question, Mr. Reynolds. Why are you here?" "If you hadn't interrupted me, I might have already told you. Patience is a virtue," Reynolds said as he took a sip of tea, "and you would be apt to remember that. I am here because I am going south to discover a piece of history: the Hoard of Matthias Dugan." Smith looked quizzically at Reynolds, obviously still not understanding what he was talking about. Reynolds sighed and prepared to explain it to the Grand Dragon. However, at that moment two children ran out of the house and started making a ruckus outside. This caused both of the men to crack a smile and Smith to laugh. "Kids are a real handful, am I right?" At that Reynolds agreed and continued his piece on Dugan's Hoard, though a bit sanitized for the children. "To elaborate further, Matthias Dugan was one of the most powerful men of the post-War era, cutting a swathe from Florida to Louisiana. He fought to cleanse the Coast of raiders and criminal bosses but was thwarted before he could finish the job. Before he died, in fact before he left Florida, Dugan hid a large amount of technology and valuables somewhere in West Florida. A treasure hoard." One of the kids looked up, her eyes lit up. "You're on a treasure hunt?" Franklin Reynolds considered that for a second and answered. "In a matter-a-fact way, yes. I guess you could say that I'm on a treasure hunt." The child's face lit up with joy as she heard that. She told her brother that, and he seemed overjoyed as well. Smith turned from the children to Reynolds with a smile on his face. "Nice of you to clarify yourself, Mr. Reynolds. You are welcome to sleep here tonight. I would still like to advice caution in wasteland, though you probably already know that. The wasteland is not a place for the kind hearts such as ours." Franklin Reynolds nodded and continued to sip his tea. Larry Johnson sat in the small, wood-panelled, painting bedecked waiting room on one of the relatively comfortable green-backed plastic and metal chairs. A receptionist, sat behind a large oak-wood desk typing away on a rusted Carlisle typewriter, occasionally glanced over at the well-dressed, almost debonair man in the chair. Every time he noticed her, he smiled a thin smile, dull and alcohol-glazed eyes hidden behind his trademark Aviators. She gave him a slightly more sincere smile, teeth showing, with a little hand wave. A dulled and drab dress with faded images of flowers clung to her slightly curved figure as she remained behind the typewriter, quickly and industriously typing sentence after sentence, pausing only to remove the paper and replace it; that, and wave awkwardly at Johnson. She was clearly bored out of her mind sat there; a man like Martin Long had little time for fraternisation or even flirtation with his staff; he had only the workings of commerce on his mind, drilled into him by years of hard-work and hard-graft. Johnson, though equally, at least in his mind, as hard-working, still had the time for all of those things. But Long was of course one of those men who had a reputation to consider; Johnson was just a hired-hand for Long Haul Fisheries & Co. and the rest of the pseudo-aristocracy in Ewing Bay, albeit a well-dressed and clean-cut one. Johnson had in his hands a falling-apart copy of Salesman's Weekly, faded pictures only slightly as visible as the almost equally faded blocks of text highlighting the importance of a good sale's pitch and one-on-one client handling. Johnson had skimmed through the magazine occasionally, not just on this occasion but on all the occasions he had found himself in this very same waiting room, windows overlooking the dull harbour of Ewing Bay, the visage of which was obscured slightly by the seemingly endless rolls of fog coming of the ocean. He still clutched the magazine in one fist, but felt no real need to keep reading it; he'd picked up most of the tricks of the trade without the help of some long-dead editor and writing staff of some equally long-gone magazine publication business. Long, or rather one of Long's flunkies, had called upon Johnson to visit the fisheries and see "the boss" and a client; apparently, according to the note handed to Johnson by said flunkie, this client was a particularly well-heeled one, though from where had not been mentioned in the note. Johnson had dutifully left, leaving his pages and pages of memoirs sat awkwardly under a bottle or two of stiff whiskey and lonesome empty shot glass. Throwing on a suit jacket and putting on his tie, he'd strolled down to the harbour, nursing a headache almost as stiff as the whiskey that he had drunk, walked into the waiting room, informed the receptionist he was here for an "appointment" and had sat down, waiting patiently for his employer to summon his receptionist, who would in turn call for Johnson to enter the office through the door to the left of her paper-laden desk. Sure enough, after what had been a mere twelve or thirteen minutes, a muffled call came from inside the room. The receptionist, not one to ignore any sound from within the office, looked over at Johnson and gave another smile, this time forced. "Mr. Long will see you now, Mr. Johnson." She said, in a clipped accent that was more-or-less forced. He gave a smile, murmured a cursory thanks, and walked to the door. First, he knocked. It was not wise to barge even if the receptionist had given the go-ahead to enter the office; receptionists did occasionally make mistakes after all. A reassuring second call, this time clearer, beckoned him in; "Enter." With a twist of the door-knob, Johnson had entered into the immaculate though sparse office of Martin Long. His desk sat in front of the only window in the office, overlooking the sea-front rows of buildings behind the warehouse. Martin Long himself, was sat at the desk, bolt up-right, with a small smile. "Ah, Mr. Johnson, please, do come in and sit down." He said, in a soft-spoken Southern drawl. "I am much obliged that you arrived in so timely a fashion." He continued, as Johnson went to sit down at one of the two chairs in front of the desk; the other was already occupied. As Larry moved to this chair, he looked quickly at this figure so as to get a rough bearing of him. An almost perfectly-white suit, complete with bolo-tie and white panama hat, complemented the figure of a slightly aged, mid-fifties man. The gentleman's black, curled hair was spotted somewhat with the odd grey-streak in the man's hair, though was put off somewhat by the presence of an almost purely black goatee-like beard. Faded blue eyes accompanied by a warm-looking smile indicated that the man was someone of status, peering down at one of his lessers. Klansman. Johnson had seen this type of Klansman before; someone trying to perfect the appearance of a Southern gentleman. These types of Klansmen were generally welcomed by the pseudo-aristocracy, themselves apparent ardent admirers of these gentlemen, oft inviting these visitors to impromptu dinner parties to ingratiate themselves with equally as posturing men and women. "I always make it my business to be on time, Mr. Long, sir." He said, sitting down in the wooden chair. "Pleasure to be here with you and mister..?" He began, looking over at the man sat across from him. "Jean De-La-Rue, Mr. Johnson, a pleasure to make your acquaintance." The two shook hands, briefly. A slight grip confirmed the fact that Jean was indeed one of those men who tried his best to emulate, at least in his mind, the mannerisms and personality of a Southern gentleman. "A pleasure, Mr. De-La-Rue." The three men talked for an hour or two, mostly about the weather and the situation along the Gulf Coast, before finally getting to the crux of the issue. "Now, sir;" Began De-La-Rue, looking over at Long with the warm smile still affixed to his face. "I believe you already know of my intentions. Does your fine worker here also know?" Long shook his head slowly. "No, no he doesn't. I took the liberty of bringing him here so that you might 'fill him in', as it were." De-La-Rue gave a nod and looked over at Johnson, resting his hands in his lap. "Mr. Johnson, I take it you are aware of the continuing growth of the waterborne trade routes of the South." Johnson gave a lopsided smile as he thought of how silly a question this was, before answering quickly. "Well, yes, of course, sir, I've been up and down the coast on the fine water craft exiting and entering this harbour." "Of course you have, Mr. Johnson, so I will ask you this; are you aware of the power struggle going on behind the curtain, of the rush to seize control of the waterways for one organisation or another?" Johnson's incredulous grin remained, though faded somewhat. "I can't say I am." De-La-Rue nodded. "Of course; you are but a hired hand. Your betters would not have made you aware of the growing distrust amongst those in business and those in power." He said, the smile slowly fading from his aged face. "I have come to this, ah, quaint town to hire boats and crew to carry out further business with the likes of the Royaume and others, and to avoid the rather, shall we say, totalitarian grip on trade within the Confederacy's territory." He raised one of the hands from his lap and ran it across his chin. "To put a finer point on it; I intend to hire out you and a few others to run a particularly precious cargo;" A frown crossed De-La-Rue's face as he paused, as if searching for words, before his face softened and he finished. "Liquor. Fine liquor." The smile came back to his face, forced this time, as he lowered his hand back to his lap. "You see, the liquors are numerous in number and variety; moonshine for the, shall we say, less refined, wines for the more so. Hundreds of crates of the finest spirits you could imagine. These liquors, you see, I wish to sell to those that would be considered the Confederacy's enemies; buyers in the Shroud's territories, that sort of thing. Now, Mr. Johnson, Mr. Long tells me that you are perhaps one of, if not the, best confidante of Mr. Long and other acquaintances in this town. I need to know, Mr. Johnson; can I rely on you to ensure that my cargo reaches it's destination intact?" Johnson was highly suspicious of the manner that De-La-Rue had delivered his exhortation in; he'd seemed rather reluctant in mentioning the cargo; that, and Johnson had had enough experience to remember that many a client who claimed to be shipping booze had in fact been delivering firearms, chems and even slaves. Nevertheless, it was clear that Long had already agreed to this "gentleman's" proposals, given the fact that Long's eyes had now drifted to Johnson, watching him. It was customary for him to do this; Long wanted to ensure that misgivings were avoided on jobs, and Larry was hardly about to make himself a problem in the eyes of his boss. "Certainly, sirs. I'll do so happily, with great zest." After Johnson had said his goodbyes, he walked out of the office with the two gentlemen behind him chatting warmly behind him. As he closed the door, the receptionist looked up at him and gave him a warm smile. "So, what were you talking about in there?" She asked. Johnson rolled his eyes and huffed, looking over at her and reaching for the pack of cigarettes into his breast pocket. "Another shit-show that I'll be leading unto the fuckin' breach.." Johnson sighed, walking out of the waiting room. "fifty seven caps." the merchant said, sweating as the midday sun blazed over his tin shack. Standing across from him, examining a questionable post-war map in the dim interior, was a ghoul dressed in trail clothes with a bandana covering his mouth. His gloved hands turned the map over multiple times as he thought about the price. "Thirty caps." he responded, putting the map down and unslinging his backpack. "No way, I won't go lower than fifty caps for that map, it was written by Turbo Achilles himself!" the merchant huffed, sweeping with his hand to emphasize his statement. The Ghoul pulled a small pouch as well as a crude looking pistol. "That rag looks worse than i do." He tossed the pouch down and placed the pistol next to it. "I'll give you thirty caps and this pipe pistol." the merchant picked up the gun skeptically and looked it over for a time, before grunting his acceptance. Eric walked out with a smile behind his bandanna as he imagined himself aboard a raft in some long-forgotten bayou, leading a crew to their fortune. But first he needed to get to Louisiana, and no route seemed good; He could continue east and have to go through San An, and then The Corpse Coast where he could get a raft north; he could go south in hook around but that would take weeks; or he could head north and then east, but that would require a trek through the Seasons, somewhere he counted himself lucky on having avoided. As he thought about his route, he would head to a neighboring shop, sure that he would need ammo regardless. The purveyor of leaden death clenched his teeth as the rusty screen door to his shop swung wide with a whine, clattering against the brass cowbell nailed above the threshold. His bloodshot eyes, lids drooping with weariness beheld the stranger as he entered. A kaleidoscopic probability array exploded in that micro-instant as the shopkeeper's eyes adjusted to the sudden intrusion of light, then collapsed, revealing one Rolento Hawke. "Peace, brother." the wanderer said, an empty hand held up, his smile warm and wide. The merchant snorted through his soup catcher of a mustache "Hope not. Ain't sellin' daisies." Rolento coughed a conciliatory chuckle and approached the chain link barrier standing between him and the proprietor. "Do you barter for guns sir?" Rolento asked, receiving a slight nod in response. "Then I have something for you. I don't really have a use for such a thing, but its artistry is something to behold." He removed his dun leather gun belt, its holster containing a revolver of exaggerated length. He slid the belt and gun across the counter, through a gap in the fence. The merchant picked up the iron, noting it was unloaded and examined it. "1965? Got a real antique here. Gonna have to check the trades." He put the weapon back in the holster and took several minutes pawing through dogeared issues of Guns & Bullets, its brittle pages yellowed with age. "Colt Buntline. Forty-five special. How'd you come across a limited edition piece like this?" "Therein lies a tale," Rolento sighed "One with a teachable moment or two, but one I cannot share today. I'm waiting for a student, they should be arriving any moment now." The merchant cocked an eyebrow "Oh yeah? Anyone I'd know?" Rolento shrugged apologetically "I don't know them myself actually, we've never met before. But this is where we're meeting." Johnson stood at the end of the pier, peering down the gangplank into the aging trawler that was to serve as his, and indeed the cargo's, mode of transportation; the Jezebel stood as a fairly aged hulk of rusted metal, rotten timbers, stinking ropes and shoddy upgrade after upgrade nailed, welded or bolted to her. Nevertheless, it was one of the more useful ships of Long Haul Fisheries & Co.; she could haul a fair tonnage of fish behind her in gigantic rope nets, or smuggle an even fairer tonnage of illicit or illegal "supplies" up and down the coast. The Klansman had made certain to spend the largest sum on crew, as well as ship, and those already on the boat were far too busy milling around with copper cables, crates of the supposed "liquor" and a not-to-be sneered at amount of rifles and revolvers, either slung over shoulders or stuffed into barely hidden holsters, to return the almost dead-pan gaze of Johnson. Indeed, Johnson was too busy fumbling around with an aged silver lighter, desperately trying to get it from the confines of a trouser pocket and up the cigarette waiting clamped between his teeth, to really care. His gaze didn't break, partly adding to the fumbling of his fingers, as he wondered what was really contained in those crates. He also considered his form of protection; an old .32 Caliber revolver, whilst hardly something to sniff at, wasn't likely to put a hole in a Red Eye anytime soon. As he did so, the lighter finally emerged from his pocket, slipping past his jittering fingers, and clattered to the floor. Johnson hissed a curse, perhaps a little too loudly, as he knelt down to pick it up. One of the crew members aboard the ship, struggling with a particularly large and rotten looking wooden crate, looked up to see where the noise had come from and promptly slipped on one of the many ropes strewn about the aging boat's deck. The crate hit the floor first, followed by the crewman on top of it, as he landed on top of it and crushed the aged wooden crate, causing the top to splinter and collapse as the sides caved outwards. Johnson, still fumbling with the lighter, ignored the angry murmurs and apologetic gasps of the crew below. Only once he had finally seized the lighter, snapping his left-hand thumb down angrily on it and finally lighting it, raising it up to the cigarette now partly crushed between gritted teeth did he feel the need to look down at the ship below properly. The crate had shattered in a spectacular fashion, as three of the crew, including the careless crewman who had dropped it, milled about trying to retrieve that which had fallen out; curiosity was as etched on their faces, however, as it was Johnson's. For in the crates was not liquor that the Klansman had promised; nor even chems or weapons, as Johnson had thought so; it was shovels, pickaxes and candles. Mining equipment. Johnson stuffed the lighter back into his trouser pocket and shuffled down the gangplank, trying to avoid falling over into the murky waters below, to further investigate. One of the crewmen scrambling on the floor looked up at him and gave him a worried look. "Boss, 'tweren't me that done this; that'd be that there dumbass Joe." Joe gave an even more worried look. "I gawt distracted, tha' all boss!" Johnson gave a dismissive wave of the hand as he walked up to the spilled contents and reached down, plucking one of the pickaxes up, twirling it in his hand. "Nevermind that, doesn't look like any of this stuff is damaged anywho; though why the hell mining equipment was in that crate, I've no clue." "And you don't need to know, Mr. Johnson." Came a call from the top of the gangplank. Johnson looked over his shoulder, pickaxe still in hand, at the immaculate looking De-La-Pleur, still in the white suit and bolo tie of yesterday, though complemented now by a white Stetson and black overcoat. "Your concern should not be directed;" Began De-La-Pleur, marching down the gangplank without breaking eye-contact with Johnson, causing Johnson to stiffen into what he felt was a more "formal" posture. "At what the cargo is, but its safe journey across the waterways." Walking up to Johnson, a blank expression on his face, he outstretched a hand. Johnson looked slightly taken aback, wondering if he was going for a gun or a knife hidden at his waist. An awkward few seconds passed as Johnson did a double take and failed to see any such weapon. "The pickaxe, Mr. Johnson. I would like my cargo intact." Johnson reached out with the pickaxe and gave a raising of the eyebrow, unsure of whether or not De-La-Pleur wanted it. De-La-Pleur placed a hand on it slowly, and twisted it around as Johnson remained holding on to it. He looked at with a dry intensity and, once apparently satisfied, let go of it and marched past Johnson. "Mr. Johnson, I'll need a replacement area of storage for that equipment." He said, walking down the stairs tucked into the bridge into the interior of the trawler, pausing half-way to look back. "That means I shall want them stored in crew quarters; should any damage come to them, I shall hold you responsible. You may find me in my cabin, sir, should anything else go awry." He turned back and continued down the stairs out of sight. Johnson, still holding the pickaxe, gave a huff and slackened his posture. For a few minutes he rapped his knee with his knuckle before peering down at the three men still on their hands and knees, staring up at him with a mix of confusion and worry. "Well, you heard him;" Johnson snapped, jabbing the pickaxe in their direction. "Get that shit out of my sight and into the bunkroom, now." The three men began scrabbling over the deck once again, seizing items up off the floor, as Johnson strutted over to the stairs and down to his cabin, below decks. The cabin was nothing special; old, with an aged wooden bed built into the outer wall, with a porthole staring out onto the water. The old floorboards creaked and groaned as he walked across to his bed, covered up only by the creaking of those above him on the deck as crew milled around with supplies, illuminated just barely by an old candle burning softly. The single light-bulb in the roof likely didn't work, as was the case with most electronics aboard ships, so it was likely that this candle would be his only light-source for most of the voyage; this made any night-time reading out of the question. Johnson removed his sunglasses and folded them with one hand and wiped his forehead with the other, wiping off what felt like either sea-spray or sweat. He was somewhat annoyed by the dressing-down he'd received at the hands of De-La-Pleur, but was more distracted and perplexed by the mining equipment. Why on earth would anyone need that sort of thing in this neck of the woods? He let out an audible sigh and shook his head. Eccentrics were pretty common in these parts, but smuggling mining equipment, things that were hardly incendiary and divisive items, was not something that Johnson had ever had to handle. He sat there for a few moments, considering what their use could be, before finally shrugging it off; Johnson figured he'd sleep on it. "Come what may, Larry ol' boy, come what may..." He murmured, as he rested on top of the dried covers of the aging bed, the creak of floorboards above him and of the bed below him the only sounds in the darkened little cabin. Eric found his destination and walked in, causing a bell above the door to ring. Blinking the darkness away, he found a customer already in front of him, a man that seemed to be at once to be a holdout from the old world and a proud figure of the new. The ghoul smiled at them from behind his bandanna as he looked around the shop, taking in the various pieces and equipment. He looked back towards the counter as he heard the merchant say something and hand some weapon or other to the customer. "Do you have any 5.56?" Eric asked him, glancing back and the various shelves and displays. Deep within the Swamps, Franklin Reynolds and his companion, a protectron named OBA, made their way south down the shattered remains of I-55. Once painted an ivory white, OBA was now stained a greenish-brown from the swamp. The interstate had been partially submerged by the Swamps but still served as the best route south to their destination: Slidell. Reynolds, wearing traveling attire, felt his legs ache as he continued to walk and once again pulled out his pre-War map of the Gulf Commonwealth. As he looked at the map, OBA piped up to alert him. "SIR, IT APPEARS WE HAVE COME TO A CROSSROADS." Reynolds looked up and surveyed his bearings. He was confused to see that he had come to an intersection. What does that mean? Glancing back down at the map, Reynolds saw where he was: the intersection of I-55 and I-12. According to the map, to the west lay Baton Rouge, to the south lay New Orleans, and to the east lay Slidell. Dugan's last resting place. Not only will it be a historical treasure trove, it could also shed some light on where the hoard might be. OBA cut into his internal monologue. "Scanning for hostiles." "Hold it right there, old man. Tell your bot to stand down too." Reynolds was mildly surprised to find several masked raiders emerging from the brush right off of the road with their weapons leveled at him and OBA. Reynolds complied, not wanting to risk his life in a firefight. Interracial savages. "OBA, stand down." OBA followed Reynolds' orders. "Situation... normal. Law and order has been restored." That gave the raiders a good laugh before they got back to robbing Reynolds. The one that seemed to be the leader stepped forward, a olve-skinned rogue with a red gas-mask. "You should know how this works. Hand over your valuables and weapons, and we won't give you no more trouble." Reynolds cracked a little smile at that. "No more trouble? You think I'm some type of imbecile? You'll probably just kill me." At that, Reynolds brought up his 10mm pistol and pointed it at the leader. I hope they fall for my bluff. The raiders looked at each other, a little confused at what to do. The leader cocked his head and raised his hands in a kind of mock surrender. "You're crazy, man. We don't want to kill you, just take some of your stuff. In fact, you're lucky we're not swampers. Now put the-" Reynolds interrupted, raising his voice. "If you're trying to kill me, I'm going to take at least one of you with me. I'll throw you some supplies but if any of you try to take anything else, I'm putting a bullet through your brain." With that, Reynolds brought out a bag of caps he had kept. The raider leader, still eying Reynolds' pistol, whispered to one of his subordinates. The other masked raider slowly came up to Reynolds and took the bag, briefly opening it to confirm it contained caps. "It's all here, boss. Caps." At that, the leader of the masked raiders put down his weapon and indicated that the other raiders should do the same. "You've got quite a pair of shriveled balls on you stranger, I'll give you that." With that, Reynolds awkwardly tried his luck. "Would you mine followed these shriveled balls to Slidell? I need some protection." At that, the leader of the raiders cringed hard. "Yeah, no. The Louisiana Pack doesn't follow old men and their robots down the Yellowbrick Road to Wonderland. Especially not to Slidell." Reynolds shrugged at that and continued down the road, brushing past the masked raiders east. OBA lumbered behind him, down the road through the Swamps to Slidell.